


What The Devil Got Into You

by philomel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Humor, M/M, Public Sex, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s impatient, and Dean’s acting like he’s got all the time in the world.</p><p><span class="small">Set vaguely during “All Hell Breaks Loose, Part Two.”</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	What The Devil Got Into You

There's nothing to say now.

And there's everything.

But Sam's got that look in his eye that says he's about to jump out of his own skin, and it ain't got nothing to do with bilocation. Though if anybody could be two places at once—

He rams himself. The boy fucking _rams_ up against Dean, like a goat. Or a... ram. But it’s Sammy, and Sammy’s much more of a goat type. But, say, a goat on top of a goat, maybe with another goat on top of that. If giant-ass Sam ever developed anything close to the strength Jake had, he'd be a friggin' monster. He practically is already, what with the mad evil rabbit look in his eyes and the goddamned ramming. Did he just draw his foot in the dirt? Shit. Dean's thinking he better use two hands to hold him back. But he's got one hand braced against the car, so it's kind of hard to know what to do, move his hand and be barreled over by Sam or _not_ move his hand and be rammed into by Sam. Ramming, barreling, ramming, barreling. It kind of sounds funny when you think about it. And Dean grins.

Sam stops. He stills.

And that's another funny thing. If Sam is itching to move on so quickly, itching to spew out all that built up energy and aggression on whatever hapless demon gets in his multi-goat-sized, crazy-but-not-yellow-eyed way... well, it's not like Dean could stop him. Not one-handed anyway.

Sam growls his name.

But it's kind of half-hearted. Kind of soft. And it's not like the kid can't project or anything. Sam says it again, even softer. It wipes the grin clean off Dean's face.

"Just go then," Dean says. And of course it's a test. "I'm not stopping you."

They both look at the hand that's pressed flat into the middle of Sam's chest. Dean can feel the beat of Sam's heart underneath his palm. His fingers curl, 'cause it just seems too close now, and he can feel the beat flutter against his fingertips. It kind of makes him feel off balance, and he's also kind of glad for the car. She’s right by his side, all solid and stable. Unlike his brother. Although the ‘solid’ part is negotiable. He's about to ask if Sam's laying some Psychic Boy vibes on him, because this is all just a bit too much. Instead, Dean juts his chin out, like a dare.

"If you're not going," Sam says, but doesn't finish. His face is all pinched like he's concentrating or being poignant or something.

Dean laughs at this — how could he not? "Of course I'm _going_ , Sammy. It's just... let's wait, okay?"

Sam sighs with his neck craning backward, making him look even more imposing than he usually does. His voice is strained — and it's not just the awkward angle of his throat — as he speaks. "I'm tired of waiting, Dean." He looks back down at Dean, bangs falling into his eyes, which are all puppy dog pathetic now. "Aren't you?" he asks. "After everything? I mean, _everything_ , Dean."

Dean's fingers curl a little tighter into Sam's shirt. Because, yeah. He is. But it's not spurring him on. He's not just tired of waiting. He's tired. He's completely fucking tired, and hanging on by the thinnest piece of miserable, worn out old thread. And Sam knows it too. That's why he's pushing things forward like there's no tomorrow. Maybe there isn't.

"Maybe," Sam starts, and it kind of, no, it _definitely_ creeps Dean out. It's like Sam's in his head. But then he's in Dean's space too, worse than before. All lanky goat-monster-boy up in his face. And up against his chest. And against his hips. And bearing down on him. Maybe Dean needs to redefine "creeped out" for himself.

Only. Maybe he's tugging at Sam's shirt, though he doesn't remember doing that. But suddenly he's got a fistful of Sam and Sam's got his fists in Dean's hair. And Sam’s mouth is too close, like he's waiting to say something. Waiting. And since when did he go from being all gung ho to being all patient and stuff? His brother was more of a friggin' girl than he thought, fucking mood swings. Fucking— _oh_.

It's dark, what with Sam blocking out all known sources of light. And wet. And kind of way too warm. And kind of way too wet. Like Sam has too much mouth. And, well, Dean probably has too much lip, but he's never gotten any complaints before. And it hurts a little, but that's because Dean's other hand is still on the car, but pretty much crushed there now. And it kind of prickles from the blood draining out of his fingers and the ring is digging into his flesh from either side and he’s almost cupping his own ass and, well, hey, that doesn't feel too bad, actually. Um. It takes Dean almost a full 60 seconds for the scant remaining blood cells in his brain to help him realize that, well. That. His brother is kissing him.

And he's kissing him back.

And it feels good. Actually, no, 'feels good' was probably the first thing he realized. Dean's really perceptive that way.

Sam drags his fingers down the sides of Dean's face and pulls back. Dean slowly opens his eyes, begrudgingly — they'd been so heavy anyway from the lack of sleep. Sam's all hazy, even after Dean's eyes refocus. He looks too pale, or maybe it's that his lips are too vividly pink, almost red. There's a sliver of spit in the corner of his mouth, and Dean moves to wipe it away because, dude, that's just gross. But Sam flinches away.

"You," Dean says, hoarsely, the breath just starting to come back to him. He points feebly at the corner of his mouth, but Sam ignores it and looks at him out of the corners of his eyes like a wounded animal.

"Stop me," he says.

Seriously, Sam's moving a hell of a lot faster here than Dean can keep up with. "What?"

Sam looks him straight on now, shoots him a hard stare with his head down as if he really is going to butt into Dean. But his voice drops so low Dean can feel it more than hear it. "Stop me."

If Dean knows his brother — and he fucking well knows him — it must be friggin' Opposite Day. Those eyes and that mouth are not saying the same things at all.

That's enough. There's nothing more to say. Dean's moving before he can think, 'cause that's what he does best. He doesn't know how, since all the laws of physics would deny such an event, but he's somehow turned Sam around, and now _he's_ up against the car, his hands crushed behind him because Dean put them there. Because if he wants to be stopped, well, Dean's gonna fucking stop him. Sam doesn't even squirm, just lets Dean hold his wrists behind him, so tight he's not sure which pulse is which anymore. Sam kisses him first and Dean's not having any of that. Stops him with his own lips, sucks the breath right out of him. Sam's bottom teeth come up at Dean's, scraping, and Dean lets go. Bites for real, right along Sam's jaw, where he can see the muscles straining. Sam's legs crook beneath him. He's starting to slide, and Dean lets him, just enough, and steps between those long, genetically unfair legs. Steps closer. Steps so close the heat radiating from Sam's skin burns through his clothes. Not literally, but might as well. He's hard too. But then so is Dean. It's kind of a no brainer.

Sam's got almost too much of himself going on, Dean doesn't know where to start. If he had time....

But he doesn't. So he pulls his hands off Sam's wrists, and fumbles for his zipper. And Sam's good, he doesn't budge. Just watches Dean's hands and tries to breathe, not doing such a good job. And neither is Dean, but it's not like he's tried to open a lot of flies that had dicks beneath them before, and he's pretty sure Sam didn't mean stop him by skinning his dick with the teeth of a zipper and. Dean cringes. Okay, that thought didn't need to come up, _thank you_. And Sam does not need to smirk at him like that either.

Dean shoots him a look that clearly says "what?" and "the fuck?" and "you really want me to stop now, bitch?" Because Dean's a multi-tasker, really.

But Sam just smiles wider, moves hs head closer. "Your tongue was sticking out and everything." And he _laughs_. At him. The motherfucker. "It's not like dismantling a bomb, Dean."

Dean's really close to leaving him there, all hard and stuff. Except that Dean's hard too, right. And except that Sam's suddenly sliding his tongue in his mouth, sliding it against Dean's, and it's kind of hard to be pissed when he's doing that. And, dude, he just said "hard." In his head. Okay, not as funny. But still. Sam's got a wicked tongue, which seems kind of backwards considering Sam’s always been the good kid, so Dean better show him a thing or two.

His tongue plunges into Sam's mouth, pushing against the soft, wet inside of his cheek. Again, and again. Just fucking it like the inside of a girl. And Sam moans just like a girl, except a bit deeper. Dean unfastens his pants, and undoes Sam's too. Maybe shoving them down a bit too hard, but you know. He's hard. And it's hard to think when you're hard. Okay. Really very hard to think.

Sam's dick is in his hand. It's heavy, and warm. And the wrong way around, if he's going to do this. And he is, really. It's just that Sam's panting into his mouth, and it's getting more difficult to breathe, so he can't help it if he hesitates. Sam's making these noises that aren't quite moans and aren't quite growls, too, which is making Dean want to make more of them. So he moves. Slides his hand along the length of Sam's dick, cradling it loosely. He moves forward a little, lets it slide up against his own. They're different, but. They're kind of the same. He doesn't know if that should be weird or not, but it's not important. Because it feels good, this heat against him, this skin touching skin, so sensitive and raw, but needing more of it. He strokes his hand over both of them and it's too much, so he puts his other hand over their dicks, holds them with both hands. And it looks kind of stupid, almost funny. And he might even have to bite his lip to stop from grinning. If Sam wasn't already biting it. And tugging too. The bastard. Dean's gonna tug back.

When he starts, he knows he won't be able to stop. It's all fucked up. Dean's trying to push and pull at the same time, trying to tighten his grip on them, trying not to lock his knees. Sam's bucking his hips, and Dean's fucking his own hands. And their dicks are sliding together beneath his fingers, and getting more and more slippery the closer he gets to finding a rhythm. So he follows the rhythm of his own pulse, since it's blasting so loud in his ears anyway. And it's too fast, really too fast, probably. But he just wants to get off now. Wants to get Sam off. Wants to see who'll come first.

He can already feel his balls tightening. His stomach muscles won't keep still. Sam's tongue won't either. It's everywhere. In his mouth. Going up along his neck. In his ear. And _fuck_. He's gonna come. He's gonna come with Sam biting the shell of his ear. And he feels Sam still and jerk beneath him, jerk again, and another time. And his hands are wet. And the little fucker came first, and he’s _still_ biting his ear. But he doesn't care, he doesn't care. Because he lets go. Dean just lets go.

Like he had a choice.

It's kind of wrong that Sam's holding him up, when he's the one pressed up against the car. But Dean doesn't think he could do it himself. He's not sure how long it has taken for the blood to stop rushing through his ears, but it has. He's got a little more air now. And a lot less bones. Or so it feels.

But mostly he's got Sam, and there's enough of him to spare.


End file.
